Sherlock Drabbles
by ImagineI
Summary: Sexy, serious, silly, sherlockifying drabbles written in an attempt to buzz away the ache of the series' absence... Rated T but M in future chapters, warning for the lusty loving up of one John Watson and one Sherlock Holmes.
1. Dark

No. 1 in my Sherlock drabbles! I hope you like ^.^ I have written other Sherlock fanfiction, but this is a project in discipline, hopefully one that will spur me to write one a day along with my Junjou Drabbles.

The characters are imagined on those seen in the BBC series. Credit to: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; Steve Moffat; Mark Gattis; Steve Thompson; Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman. Non-specific order.

Also, elephantine thanks to **Atlin Merrick** and **Mirith Griffin** for inspiring my typing fingers so. READ THEM... please. This is for you, I hope it is to your liking standard.

I hope readers enjoy! Reviews would, of course, be warmly received but please help yourself to ice cream and deerstalkers on your way out : )

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><p><span>Dark<span>

It may have become necessary in your life to sink your hand into darkness, be it when you've arrived home late or are creeping nervously around a typically unvisited room, or have prevailed upon yourself to take a moonlit safari down the back of your garden in a spontaneous flip of curiosity, to see that new-born skulk of foxes. Whether it has occurred in any of the listed circumstances or in any other, it is known that a jolt will tremor through you once you feel anything other than silky air between your fingertips. It is a panic-laden punch to the heart, soon soothed by either the immobility of the miscellany or the familiarity of it.

Such a lurch is gripping. Stomach-flipping. Balance-tipping.

Say you are a sturdy one, accustomed to fright and surprise. Would you flinch in your shadowed apartment should a fine-woven snarl of hair caress your unsuspecting palm? Would you gasp at the nip your palm receives, or more specifically- you later learn- your _Mount of Venus_ procures (that ticklish territory of flesh that flares south of the thumb)? Say you were a soldier. Say your heart was trained with fear. Would you jounce as your thigh was hugged with one crackerjack hand...

And your shirt was shivered from its tuck...

And as you felt a sting as sharp teeth pinched the skin of your hip, would you buckle with distress and squeal?

What if you recognised that cinnamon-scent, that pulse from those avaricious _phalanges_...

And as you felt your nerves arise as you experience an inhalation at your waist, sense heat as the supposed-stranger rises and comes closer...

Feel the libidinously-hot breath north of your upper lip, then north north east... east... (you are learned in navigation)...

And then a burning kiss on your tingling lips, a dash of hot, wet tongue over the smarting cut of your lower lip...

Your nether regions are met with a U.E.O. (Unidentified Erected Object)... which is no doubt clad in black cotton trousers and a silver-glinting belt-buckle...

Would you quiver?

Or would you scratch down newcomer's neck? And, with gruff timbre, would you sigh, impassioned?

John Watson did. Except the pornographic-predator was not a stranger; it was none-stranger than Sherlock Holmes. And he was concupiscent to say the least.

Needless to say, the doctor soon excitedly anticipated bumps in the night.


	2. Muscles

This drabble comes before the consummation of the relations between Sherlock and John... but John gets his top off and we go through the process of Sherlock getting turned on : ) Ask me or search online for any vocabulary queries : ) All italics = Sherlock's thoughts.

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><p><span>Muscles<span>

"John, your phone's ringing. It's your sister and she hasn't stopped since nine-" it was now ten- "and the inanity of the ringtone is killing braincells." Sherlock strode to John's room with the vibrating phone held in front of him like one might hold a pirahna under water. He got to the door and, remembering John's recent tirade on knocking, tapped three times.

The third tap just so happened to knock the door open from being tightly closed.

"Joh-" Sherlock froze as John finished a sit-up. _Torso toned, back broad, skin sweaty and glowing from the light and wind blowing from the open window, where thin, white cotton curtains billow_. The cool air had alerted John's nipples and, feeling a tad inebriated, Sherlock's pupils dilated as he was sidetracked by that chest... It must be noted here that Sherlock had all of three seconds to compute the following until John stood to attention.

_Matured pectoralis major, further defined by exercised pectoralis minor;_ _Trapezius raised; Latissimus Dorsi_ _toned, robust..._ Here, Sherlock experienced the internal shiver accompanied with such a thought as employing the eight intrinsic and extrinsic muscles of his tongue over that 'toned, robust' territory of army-boy flesh. An influx of defiantly subjective words plowed to the forefront as he studied John further.

_Ripped, hulky, brawny. Compact._ This was a voice Sherlock was not accustomed to and it sparked his entire nervous system like dynamite. His IQ practically licked its lips as if bored with nutrition and drooling for steak, imagining the sensation it would cause both parties if Sherlock somehow stimulated the lateral and medial pectoral nerves... _No! __Concentrate. Be objective._

_Faint scar on right shoulderblade. Recently shaved hair at nape of..._ Sherlock shook his head. _Nape of neck. Fine, not working. Look somewhere else. Army-camouflage trousers. His eyes. Focused... determined... exhalation from mouth sure and_- _External oblique, internal oblique, rectus abdominis, transverse abdominis- hard not to contemplate raking unguis over thoraco-abdominal nerves._

Sherlock gritted his teeth and unclenched his hands. The vibrating phone did nothing to help. _Experiencing xerostomia. _He actually felt his ears burn as John stood up.

"Oh, thanks-" John paused as he caught sight of Sherlock's glazed-eyed expression, his lips slightly parted.

Suddenly, Sherlock swallowed, exhaled, turned on his heel and strode back to the living room, phone still in hand. John followed, barefoot.

"Sherlock?" When John got to the living room, he found the mobile still buzzing, on the table and flipped it open just as the front door banged shut. "Hello?" John spoke into the phone.

"John! How are you? I've been calling for an hour! Are you okay?"

John cleared his throat and pulled a hand around the back of his neck.

"Yeah, I... I think so."


	3. Stardust

Stardust

Sherlock glanced at the stars before his eyes, at the moon and all its spherical sisters and bomby brothers.

"Bomby? Why bomby?" John asked after Sherlock finished muttering dreamily to himself.

"They'll implode at some point, John. Imagine a balloon."

"Nothing's blowing air into them."

"Nothing we can see," Sherlock smiled, holding his hands behind his back. Gloved hands. Loved hands. Hands that had felt the darling dawn, the sweetheart yawn golden, London summer sunshine. He squeezed his hand behind him, hugging with his palm the tender kiss John had parachuted there this yawning morning. He could almost taste the brown-sugar sweetness of it on his tongue. He flung a glance back at John, who was admiring a blue-grene cluster of stars on one poster in the dark museum room.

"Why don't you know more about space? I mean... look!" John swept his arm around, maintaining a masculine stance.

"Despite its selfish, ambling residents, I really quite like Earth. London, especially." John smiled in a disbelieving sort of way.

"No," he said, holding his own hands behind his back as he looked down at the floor and then up at Sherlock again. "You'd float away," he asserted. "Any more knowledge on The Milky Way would have you starving for stardust. You'd have to taste it. You anchor yourself down, purposefully, by not knowing. Because you know the risk."

Sherlock's tongue was momentarily numb with flattered shock.

"Sherlock? John? Come look at this!" Lestrade called.

Oh yes. A crime scene.

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><p>Reviews would be luver-ly but either way, I hope you enjoyed!<p> 


	4. Scrabble

Drabble No. 4 : ) I hope you enjoy, please review with anything you think may be helpful.

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><p><span>Scrabble<span>

"That's not a word!"

"Correction: it is a word, it just isn't used anymore."

"Sherlock, the rules state that words must be in an English dictionary."

"Oh, really?" Sherlock seemed genuinely apologetic and he looked at the Scrabble board with worry. "Well, would you mind if I checked for it in the dictionary?"

"Be my guest," John sighed, relishing his rare turn to be intellectually exasperated. He took a bite of his digestive biscuit as Sherlock shot up and swept over to the bookshelves by the window and then began switching around tiles on his rack.

Sherlock returned less than a minute later and dropped a heavy tome under John's nose.

Inked on the end of one beige, aged page was the word of inquest and although the forgery of the printed text was admirable to say the least, John still declared-

"No! You can't write words in the dictionary!" He took a few seconds, nonetheless, to appreciate the copy of the print.

"You can," Sherlock retorted. "You shouldn't but you can. And nowhere does it state that the lexigram cannot be written within said lexicon."

"But what does 'pudh' even mean?" John cried. He was beginning to think he'd never get to play Scrabble again.

"No idea," Sherlock sighed, folding his legs. Then, with a smile, he added: "Shall we look it up?"

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><p>Hellloooo ^.^ By the by, 'pudh' is an Old English word meaning 'horrible' : )<p> 


	5. Handwriting

Drabble No. 5 : ) I hope you enjoy, please review with anything you think may be helpful.

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><p><span>Handwriting<span>

The swoop and loop Lestrade had expected in Sherlock's handwriting was, in reality, replaced with a sparsity of letters and lines that- unless 'funf' was a word- made no sense at all.

"Do you understand any of this?" he asked Watson in a hushed tone as Sherlock walked past them in the laboratory. They had been called for enlightenment on their most recent case.

"Yes," Watson replied. He sounded annoyed.

"I didn't think he wrote at all, save for on that website thing of his. I thought he kept it all in his head."

"Oh. he keeps ninety-nine percent of it in his head."

"And the one percent?"

"That," Sherlock suddenly spoke from behind them, "would be a shopping list."

"Why is it written in code?"

"It's quicker."

"Oh," Watson remarked, "so it isn't just to wind me up when I go and do the actual shopping, then?"

"Not solely for that purpose, no. Now,-" Sherlock clapped his hands to change the subject- "the purple kitten!"

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><p>Please review ^.^ Either way, I hope you enjoyed!<p> 


	6. Wedlocked

Here is the first chapter of my new series 'Locked'. Thought I would upload it here, too : ) Let me know what you think ^.^ Just so you know: my drabbles tend to be standalone pieces, so whilst one would have Sherlock loving John up to no end, another would... well, read on : )

Love to know what you think ^.^

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><p><span>Wedlocked<span>

In script that reminded John very much of the sea- with all its undulations, froth and frisk- the note had been slipped into his jacket pocket. He hadn't noticed it until now, as he swept his coat off the hook to wrap around himself. Alone in 221B Baker Street, hallway lit only by an outside lamp, John unfolded the paper.

'_Simply this, John~  
><em>

_I shall always love you. But from my mind, never my body.  
>No other soul holds permanent residence.<br>You are the sui generis.  
>I am not gifted with the desire for or intelligence of physical expressions of adoration, save, perhaps for this loving letter.<em>

_Yours _

_S.H._'

Without sound, barely with movement, John carefully refolded the note and swallowed as he took his wallet from his back trouser pocket. He tucked it into a secret compartment not used for any other purpose. He would not mention the letter, would not hint of its discovery. Simply, he would keep the fragment of Sherlock's heart on his person at all times- this mute manuscript, passion parchment; this emblematic engagement ring. And theirs would be a marriage of souls. Wedlocked.


	7. Territory

Okay! So, John and Sherlock pairing. Please review with any thoughts, it's very encouraging and promotes the chance for future chapters (of course, lack of reviews is also helpful in signalling that no more chapters are wanted). Hope you enjoy! This will be a multi-chapter fic in 'Baker Street In The Dark', separately, (hopefully!) but is also featured in my Sherlock Drabbles : )

BBC Sherlock.

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><p><span>Territory<span>

"Sh-Sher_lock_!" John groaned. Sherlock's cool hand swept over John's muscled stomach, tangibly admiring the cut edges of his _rectus abdominis _and _rectus sheath_ individually, stroking back the golden hair and gripping with his nails the lithe s_erratus anterior_. John was lying flat on the bed, under the devilish detective, having been pushed down moments before. Sherlock's nose nudged into John's hip, more precisely his _inguinal ligament_, his rear thrust into the air in those tight, black suit trousers, his suit jacket draped on either side of them both, like some Cartier cocoon. "Sherlock, I don't want to do this," John hissed, though the fact that the ex-soldier wasn't pushing Sherlock off told an entirely different story and accounted for the tension in John's hands, shoulders and groin in quite another fashion.

"I. Don't. Care," Sherlock whispered. His voice was silk. He analysed a territory of flesh just above John's waist and pulled John's sweater further up. "I want this. I've never-" Sherlock slid his knee up to John's groin and let out a small, gasping groan himself- "Never wanted this. Until now."

It was dark in Sherlock's bedroom and the window was covered with a thick drape that just about concealed the milky lamp of the moon. So all was in shadow. Sherlock _was_ shadow, as his musician's fingers scratched up John's sides, a byproduct of pushing up that woollen jumper; as his teeth lightly, _lightly_ grazed under John's navel. He smelled of mint, fresh- _from the menthol of that cheap, supermarket brand shower gel_, Sherlock mused- and something warmer underneath... like hot milk... and honey. It was all Sherlock could do to not lick him.

Feeling his nerves stand to attention and practically salute Sherlock, John gritted his teeth and scrunched his eyes closed, resisting the effeminate urge to bite his lower lip-

Because Sherlock- virgin, asexual Sherlock- was so very, _very_ good at this. His long index finger stroked the diagonal line of John's _external oblique_, sending a shiver of shock up John's spine. He still had not touched Sherlock himself, rigid beneath this sudden, spontaneous Romeo. His mind turned dark as he realised that would make him Juliet, but he had little time to wallow under that, as Sherlock spoke.

"Have you ever?" he asked, quietly as he slowly sniffed at John's torso.

"Ever... what, sex? Of cour-"

"With a man." John's eyes opened, his mouth opened as he began to breathe shallowly through it.

"Oh..." Sherlock paused in his ministrations and looked up, face navy in the darkness, but John could see the eyes wide with inquiry and mouth pouted in focus; he knew Sherlock was near totally unaware of this habit.

John cleared his throat.

"So, yes, then," Sherlock surmised.

"I didn't say anything-"

"You cleared your throat. You do that when you're thinking and if you've never entered into male sexual relations then you would not have needed to ponder the matter."

"I love it when you talk dirty." John said this for the humour and as a small stab at Sherlock out of frustration for his knowing him so well. Sherlock tried, hopelessly, to reduce the size of his pupils as they expanded; he loved the gravel of John's voice, so much so that it sparked a fire under the skin of his cheeks and chest.

"So," Sherlock continued, "you have? In the army, I assume."

"No, just... no! There was an 'almost' incident, but nothing of great- _ah_!" Sherlock, bored no doubt, had pushed his palm against John's groin. He tapped his fingers on John's belt.

"I've only read. I'm fairly skilled in theory. Never performed a practical."

"Can you please not turn this into a scientific shag? Can it please just be a shag?"

"Oh," and here Sherlock's voice melted into a lower, darker octave as he reared his whole torso up and kneeled between John's legs. "So you do want this to happen?"

Frank as ever, John sighed and spluttered.

"I'd have thought your research would have answered that question."

"I'm flirting."

"What?"

"Rhetorical questions have proved an effective device for flirtation." Sherlock's tone was so honest and forthwith, that John remained gaping for a few seconds before he replied.

"You've really never done this before, have you?"

"No," and with that, Sherlock looked away. His knees splayed apart and his arms hung loosely at his sides.

"Not even a fast fondle?"

"No."

"Quickie?"

"Never."

"One night stand?"

"Nein," Sherlock bit the word out. The silence was all too telling of Sherlock's disgruntled embarrassment.

"So," and John managed to ask this as though he wasn't being almost straddled by Sherlock, "I'm actually the expert here?"

"Sixteen short-term, heterosexual relationships over a thirty-year period does not equal professionalism."

"Err, and one make-out in the military. With a man." John smiled, a little smug.

Sherlock head snapped round and he locked stares with John for a long moment. They could not see the colour of one another's eyes.

John hummed and looked down at his belt. He was beginning to sympathise with Sherlock and did not feel the burning desire to tease him. He pushed back and bent his elbows behind him after flicking on the light on the bedside table. The periodic table poster glowed down on them from the ceiling, turning John rainbow-coloured. Sherlock was gazing at John's jumper-sheathed chest, eyes glazed as though he wasn't looking properly at all. His hair was monstrously marvellous, carelessly coifed and boldly black as a nighttime London alleyway. John reckoned it would feel like silk...

Light on, they both suddenly felt the intensity and daren't look into eachother's eyes.

Sherlock's eyes flickered to John's hair instead, the texture of which looked like fox-fur, grey and sandy like a day on an English beach.

John swallowed and bucked up his courage.

"I want to do this..." he said, quietly. He then pushed up, effortlessly, and slid Sherlock's jacket over his shoulders. From there, the jacket slipped off by itself and Sherlock's white shirt was also tattooed with the rainbow reflections of the coloured periodic table poster. Sherlock smiled, tightly.

"Fitting colours for the scene," he joked. The banner of the LGBT community swayed in John's mind and he let out a short laugh.

His eyes turned wide as he studied the blue duvet cover to his left.

"We haven't even kissed yet..." he muttered.

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><p>Reviews, please : ) Either way, I hope you enjoy, but feedback is pretty much monumental in how my stories turn out in that I am experimenting on this website and would love to know the effects of my writing so that I might continue or cut techniques.<p> 


	8. Tomb

A musing one year after the burial of S.H.

J.W. arrives, still oblivious to the SHadow

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><p><span>His Tomb's Friend<span>

Silver lined the eyes of a man, _the_ man at the lonely lozenge.

Those threads of tears were like the thinnest blankets in the cot of a wailing baby.

And the man did cry like a baby. Unashamedly, on nights when the silence- that abhorrent, monstrous mute of marvellous mouth- clenched around his heart and made it ache.

Not in front of anyone but 'he' would he shed his armour, his camouflage. For he felt safe with the highly functioning sociopath. Functioning no more.

But on this eve of buried grief, did the man inscribe his face with infant tears? No.

One solo sip of water for his chin did grace from those tempestuous eyes-

For anger had wrung him of his theatrics and over the perpetual papercuts he had bit into his heart some three hundred and sixty four days before- each stinging with the lemon-juice of life- he now drew his mourning blade with more efficient finesse-

And ensured the self-imagined dagger dabbed so deep into the blood of his antagonised aorta, so that it would wound but heal like stone-

And Man wished no more that his heavy, longing heart beat, but it did.

Meanwhilst he he mourned for stood, far off 'neath yonder tree-

his ticking ticker, too, pulsed petulantly-

(These two bosom buddies, two, have stubborn metronomes),

Spying and safeguarding his tomb's friend-

Our chicane martyr,

Mr Holmes.


	9. Plant

Plant

Sherlock could taste dust in the water as he drank it from the mug on John's bed-side table. He gulped it down, nonetheless, having not wet his lips with anything other than his tongue for the past twenty-four hours. An experiment... of course.

Nor had he moved from John's bed, propped up with pillows since one o'clock this morning facing that portrait view of sky and trees with the French doors opened onto the tiny balcony. He had watched the sun's salute, from young yellow through apricot adolescence and finally aged auburn, wiser than its sibling shades and tired from his its observation of the blue-and-green-speckled orb. In respect, Sherlock had muttered his musings to his meandering friend, interrupting a few times the rumbles of those pining, puffy clouds.

And here Sherlock was himself, puffed up on pillows awaiting his own light-

The door opened and John walked in. Sherlock's head snapped round.

"Sherlock? What... what are you doing in my bed?" _The three bears said it was good... not good enough for Goldie..._ one of Sherlock's voices mused.

"I thought you were on a medical course!" He retorted rather pompously, not moving from the mattress.

"I've been sitting in the living room all day wondering where you were! Mrs Hudson said she had not seen you, either. What have you been doing?"

"Talking with old yolkie," Sherlock replied, matter-of-factly, gesturing to the egg-yellow speck of sun in the corner of the view the window offered.

"Are you high?" John asked, both disapproving and donning his stern doctor's voice.

"No." Sherlock's head swam a little and his neck drooped a tad.

"Then what?"

"Self-inflicted paralysation, starvation and- until a moment ago- dehydration. But I allowed myself oxygen and sunlight."

There was a silence, John's face conflicted with exasperation, hilarity and pure, utter confusion. Then,

"Right. Fine. Whatever. But out of my bed. Go be a plant in your own room."

Sherlock did not look miffed, but dozy and he slipped out of the bed. Naked... of course.

"Oh- Sherlock!" John turned away, tips of his ears pink.

"What!" Sherlock protested, enjoying the head-rush and the zing of blood in his buzzing limbs. "Daisies don't wear pyjamas."


	10. Moriart

Little Moriarty poem inspired by the courtroom scene in The Reichanbach Fall episode. Hope you enjoy, let me know what you think ^.^

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><p><span>Moriarty On The Stand<span>

Satan's eyes are white with fury,  
>New flames crackling for the jury.<br>Angel Holmes, demure, he  
>Does not stand alone.<p>

Even Gabriel has a doctor-  
>Not that Molly mortal, shocked her<br>Presence cannot be seen.  
>Our Doctor leans<p>

Over

To see what I have spun,  
>In the courtroom, one by one<br>I've caught them - flies + homicides  
>Buzz.<p>

Careful, Sher, _cher_. Put a muzz-  
>-le on yourself<br>Or you're up on the shelf  
>With me.<p>

And I don't promise not to push.

Or prod. Or poke. Or tickle. Or prickle. Or shove.

Love.


	11. Holmage

Sherlock Holmes - In Memoriam

A little Holmage to our dear friend, Sir Holmes.  
>To his harrowed-hawk eyes and 'paper-cut' cheekbones.<br>On paper a joy, euphoric, a boy.  
>Of life, love and death? <em>Nulla<em> but a toy.

Am I right? Do you spite at my infantile rhyme?  
>Indulge me: I have seen you when Grimm stole your time.<p>

Think me young?  
>See me sprung,<br>From the edge of my seat,  
>An admirer- flung<br>For your erudite beat.

Skull  
>To mull<br>Over stark evidence.  
>Sherlock- shark? Smells the blood, whence<br>The bloodhounds bark...

No. Not shark.

Fine lark,  
>Sluicing the air with your new song.<p>

You're the bloodhound. Call me old-fashioned, but I don't see you as a daschund. Your bark is Bach.

What flair.

Small expression  
>Out of fashion<br>To show much reaction.  
>Do you revel in it- murder- just a smidgen? Just a fraction?<p>

Some may be fool to hark 'Yes' to that jab, stab of flab  
>Of the idiots<br>Who- arrogant- stole your first cab, in the rain, that time:

You were four, out the door to save neighbour's cat.  
>And lolly-licker from next door spied you herald that<br>Whizzing taxi.  
>Only time you missed one.<p>

But, true, only missed because you spun to glare at that scabby kneed schoolboy that blocked your way. Fair punch came out of it- you- too.

But nay.  
>It is not <em>mort<em>, _surm_ or _kifo_  
>That inspires your genio.<p>

It's life- (Watson: Jesus Christ)

Whoop-di-doo, aren't I unique?

Sarcasm, S.H., your mother-tongue; speak  
>A true word,<br>_Motte Juste_  
>As with whip, pen or bullet,<br>You thrust  
>A full-stop, comma, to the end of your<p>

Explanation.  
>Verification.<br>Elaboration.

Black crow, oiled feather- an angel with the wings of London weather. Flown-

For the nation.

'Last note' to Watson- Truth sent?

We shall not know until your mind judges prudent.

For now, we shall listen,

Not in silence

but to violin violence;

Amusement:

Bach's Double Violin Concerto in D Minor, 1st Mvt.

And when a tear glistens:

His Violin Concerto In G Minor- 2nd Mvt.


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